


Rhineland, fragments, WIP

by saucisson



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:38:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saucisson/pseuds/saucisson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>WIP, fo' sho'.  Bits of narrative come to me, I have to write them down. Will edit and augment and turn into a story.  But for now, just some pieces of life back in Germania -- let's say Frisland, because Agron has got freckles and some red in his beard so his people are probably near-ish the North Sea with grand-cestors interfered-with by Norsemen, unless my people-migration-calculation is off by like 800 years which it probably is.  Oh well.  Its fiction.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Rhineland, fragments, WIP

**Author's Note:**

> WIP, fo' sho'. Bits of narrative come to me, I have to write them down. Will edit and augment and turn into a story. But for now, just some pieces of life back in Germania -- let's say Frisland, because Agron has got freckles and some red in his beard so his people are probably near-ish the North Sea with grand-cestors interfered-with by Norsemen, unless my people-migration-calculation is off by like 800 years which it probably is. Oh well. Its fiction.

Isild is the fifth to see strangers upon road: two men, one smaller than the other, carrying packs. The larger strides with eyes forward, the smaller looks about at pasture, farmhouse, livestock. 

Children herald their advance, shout of strangers -- Warriors! Foreign men! -- running back to look for detail yet unseen, running ahead again to shout more news.

Only two, neither carries weapon in hand though she notes the larger with sword at side wound with leather loops across hilt, the smaller with spear across back. The larger turns to her as they walk past, she blushes under gaze. They walk on.

***

In sister's home, returning soldier is met with disbelief. Gone twelve years, most believed him already seated at Woden's table. Yltha embraces younger brother, appraises companion and offers hands in welcome. Mother touches household gods in silent gratitude and sets to hearth, busies trembling hands with preparation of tastes beloved from childhood.

Kin and neighbors are sent for, food is brought, drink is poured. Nasir is greeted first with guarded curiosity, then welcomed with shouts of friendship when words are spoken in local tongue. Agron tells of Duro. Loss is accepted and celebrated as fallen warrior, though mother's tears are shed in quiet over cooking fire. Scars are examined and compared, though battle-roughened men look askance on Agron's hands, now unable to grip hilt. He chafes under their pity. 

Children shy at first soon are caught up in excitement, inspect strange clothing and arms, ask Nasir for words in foreign tongue. Across room, Agron smiles faintly at him, weary from travels, from shame of injury ending days as warrior, and from loss of brothers weighing on spirit.

Agron talks of Rome, of rebellion and victories and final defeat. Kin tell of Rome reaching ever Northward, of battles across the Rhine to the South and West. The river has protected them thus far but worry fills mind. Agron talks of 6,000 crucified and left to die. He does not speak of own torture, but many eyes drop to wounded hands and guess at injury. Mothers glance towards running children, husbands towards wives. 

Blunt questions for Nasir: Where do you come from? Where are your kin? How came you to Agron's side? You are so small, do you also fight? Agron laughs at the last one 

\- Do not seek challenge, lest you be shamed!

Doubting laughter in reply, and promise extracted to spar after rest is had and strength is regained. Cups are refilled and celebration turns back towards welcome homecoming til late night sees guests to their homes, mother to her bed, sister to settling brother and companion to theirs.

\- You are comfortable to share bed? she asks with sly look. Agron grins, bashful. - I see all, Yltha continues. - You shall bed in stable loft, you find me unprepared for guests.

She guides them to stable with slumbering horses, leads them up to hayloft, helps spread bedding over loose straw. 

\- Welcome home, little brother, she says with embrace and kiss upon cheeks and wounded hands. - And you, turning to Nasir. -Welcome among the Frisii. Nasir returns her embrace and utters small words of thanks in German tongue. She beams, and winks at brother before descending and leaving them to their bed.

Silence now but for the sounds of draught animals breathing deep in slumber. The smell of fresh hay, tang of horse and litter, scent of linen washed and dried in autumn breeze. Under protection of walls and roof, kin and clan, lovers are asleep before first kiss is ended.

***

Weeks following bring adjustment to life in peacetime. Agron's eyes are ever-watchful, Nasir jumps at unexpected noise and footfalls on doorstep. Mother's brow knits at change in middle-born son, imagination gives rise to demons that must lie beyond the river to cause fear in warrior such as he. 

Open grazing land lies outside village, along Southeast track. Discussions, and agreement to build home with passage for pasturing. Advance of winter necessitates quick work. Agron takes up axe to fell trees, binding axe handle to hands with leather straps devised by Nasir, but he cannot hold for long before hands cease grip. Kin lend aid, and though Agron finds burden of gratitude hard to shoulder Nasir is cheerful enough for both. Agron's people find young Syrian a welcome presence -- quick to observe and understand stone and timber, offer guidance and aid, and stronger than first impression for so slight a figure, lifting stone and laying beam. 

***

Door closes on quiet hinges behind last visitor, Nasir pulls woolen drape across frame to block out draught from thin seams. He inspects walls, runs fingers along posts and stone, opens and closes cabinet doors. Agron stands watching, leaning head against wall.

\- You are pleased with it?

Nasir rewards with wide smile.

\- I have never had so much to call my own.

\- It is well-earned, and much-deserved. 

Fire crackles in hearth, throwing warmth and flickering light around new dwelling. Nasir fingers small figures stood into nook beside mantle, household gods installed by Agron's mother to watch over returned son and chosen companion. He takes Frig in hand, turns her over, examining carving made with clear devotion. Agron crosses room in three strides, pulls Nasir close.

\- Would you have it blessed? he asks. Nasir places goddess back into home, encircles Agron's neck with arms 

\- Any place I am with you is already blessed.

Agron's arms tighten around lover, head bends to kiss.

***

.  
.  
.

***

Agron sees Isild cast eye around home. The cottage fits two men with comfort. One large room with fire for warmth and cooking, wide stone hearth and chimney with inglenook. Pegs by door hold cloaks and outdoor garments, below stand outdoor shoes, exchanged for soft boots of sheepskin at end of day. Table and chairs, and benches with cushions of linen stuffed with straw for visiting neighbors and aged relatives. Felted wool hangs upon wall to aid against draught, larder and cabinets house foodstuffs and utensils, hammered copper basin for heating water -- a luxury. Beyond, sleeping quarters: tall cabinets for clothing and bedding, a wooden-framed platform with straw-stuffed linen and woven bedcovers.

Her smile grows overly bright, and Agron follows gaze through open door to bed he shares with Syrian companion. Heart sinks at realization of disappointing such a spirit as hers, all kindness. He had not meant to encourage. Nasir has teased him before for not seeing what is obvious to many.

***

Nasir is shy of her questions not from shame or embarrassment but because he treasures things that are only for Nasir and Agron to know: 

Soft words and secrets of heart spoken in tent at night. Kisses stolen in empty halls of temple sheltering rebellion and alleys of city taken back from Rome. Pleasure drawn quick in wild infatuation and slow in deepening love. Terrors in the night borne of remembered pain and loss soothed by strong arms and gentle whispers.


End file.
